Catching Falling Stars

by Karen McCombie

  Rich gives the knitted toy mouse a kiss and places it on his pillow.

  “It was mine as a child,” Miss Saunders told him over tea last night, in her usual tight-lipped, unsmiling way. “But you may keep it, Richard, if it’s a comfort, till your mother sends on your, er, Duckie…”

  Rich went to hug her, but Miss Saunders stood up and took dishes to the sink before he could reach her. Didn’t she realize what a compliment that was? No, of course not…

  “Come on,” I call back to him now, as I limp down the stairs. “I think breakfast must be nearly ready.”

  I’ve been hearing the clinking of dishes and cutlery the last few minutes and the smell of newly baked bread has been wafting up to the bedroom as I’ve hurried to get dressed.

  Though my throat feels so tight I’m not sure I’ll manage to swallow anything.

  School.

  That’s the problem.

  In no time at all I’ll have to make my way to the church hall, where the older children are being taught. Lucky Rich; with all the evacuee children in the area, the Thorntree primary school is overcrowded, and the classes have been split so that evacuees attend in the morning and local children after lunch.

  That means he’ll be back here soon after noon, while I’ll have to last for a whole day as the new girl in a room full of staring strangers.

  “Everything all right?” asks Miss Saunders, looking up from the bread she’s buttering.

  “Everything is lovely, Miss Saunders!” says Richard, overtaking me and gambolling to a seat at the table.

  But I know the question was aimed more at me than at my brother.

  “Yes, thank you, Miss Saunders,” I respond with a nod – and thankfully she nods back.

  We don’t have to embarrass Rich. Miss Saunders only needs to know that we slept well, with no accidents. In fact, Rich loved his exciting trip to the loo in the dark, with the “explorer’s” torch to light his way.

  “Good, good,” says Miss Saunders, as she pops bread on two plates and goes to check on the eggs that are bubbling and boiling in a pot on the range. “Now, Richard, Gloria … I just wanted to say that I hadn’t expected to end up with two children to look after. Just as I’m sure you hadn’t expected to end up staying here with me, I dare say.”

  She’s addressing this speech to the bubbling pot rather than us, so I’m not sure what to say or do except sit down opposite Rich.

  “But as it’s turned out this way, well, we must think of it as doing our duty. Part of the war effort. We must all just make the best of it.”

  Behind her back, I frown at Miss Saunders’ coolly delivered words. Over the table from me, Rich beams, as if she’s been as warm and welcoming as Father Christmas.

  “And anyway, even if the roof hadn’t been damaged, Mr Wills’ farm would have been quite unsuitable for you,” she carries on, reaching to take a large spoon from an earthenware utensil pot. “I mean, the very idea of placing evacuees in a household with no woman present…”

  “It’s not the farmer’s fault,” Rich pipes up. “Mum’s friend Vera said his wife die—passed away.”

  “Huh!” snorts Miss Saunders. “Is that the story people are believing? No, no… Mrs Wills ran off years ago. And now it’s just him, and those boys he lets run wild.”

  The way she said “him”, it’s clear that Miss Saunders has no great love for Mr Wills. I know I’m only thirteen, and it’s not my place to ask about the mystery of missing wives or what’s wrong with the farmer exactly, but at least there’s something else I think I can find out and still sound polite.

  “I know Harry’s the older one,” I say, “and there’s a younger son called Lawrence. But there was another boy at the farm on Saturday…”

  And laughing behind the graveyard wall yesterday, I could add but don’t. I’d rather not be reminded.

  “A thin sort of boy? Dark hair?” Miss Saunders checks, and I nod. “That’ll be the evacuee who’s been staying with them this last year. Archie, I think I’ve heard him called.”

  So that means the boy with the browny-blond hair must be Lawrence. Archie and Lawrence. Please, please don’t let me be sitting anywhere near them at school today.

  “Now,” Miss Saunders carries on, while turning back to the eggs, “to make things more … more homely, perhaps you should call me Auntie Sylvia. Would that be all right?”

  I’m so taken aback, I don’t know what to say for a second. What’s surprised me more? That Miss Saunders wants us to call her “auntie”, or that she thinks being stuck here could feel “homely”?

  Rich doesn’t bother speaking either. With a screech of his chair, he’s on his feet and rushing to hug her.

  Miss Saunders – Auntie Sylvia? – stands holding the pot with one hand and the spoon in the other and seems uncertain what to do about the small boy wrapped around her waist.

  “Well, I’m glad you approve,” she says at last. “Now sit back down at the table, Richard, and let’s get you two some breakfast. One egg or two, Gloria?”

  “Just one,” I reply, sliding into a chair. And then I think about adding something else, just to see what it feels like. But the words “Auntie Sylvia” stick in my throat.

  They feel wrong. Peculiar.

  In fact, I feel like this whole day might be very peculiar indeed…

  “Pssst!”

  I ignore the noise. I’ve been ignoring it most of the morning. It happens every time Mr Carmichael turns round and writes something on the board.

  “PSSSSST!”

  I think it’s the girl making the noise this time. I found out her name when register was called; she’s Jessica, Jess for short.

  Her pals Lawrence and Archie have been guilty of it too, of course. It’s like listening to pipes hissing steam all around me.

  But I don’t react. It’s what Mum always said to Rich about the teasing that went on at his school back home: if you react to it, the bullies will keep pestering you. If you ignore them, they may give up and go away, if you’re lucky.

  Of course, Rich isn’t always lucky.

  Oh, how is he getting on? I wonder and worry.

  When I took Rich to school this morning, he clung to my hand and repeated his “Glory, Glory, Glory!”s, and straight away children were staring at him. The teacher, Miss Montague, didn’t seem very kind either. I tried to say that Rich was a bit sensitive, but you could tell she held no truck with such nonsense. She simply reached over and snatched Rich’s hand from mine, saying that no one got special treatment from her; everyone was treated in the same, fair way.

  “Please be all right, Rich,” I mutter now, gripping my slate pencil so tightly my knuckles go white.

  And I’m not only worrying about his time in lessons; how will he manage making his own way home to the cottage? Rich has never gone to or from school without either me or Mum holding his hand. I know it’s not far, but what if he gets lost? Or falls in the pond? Or bullies bother him?

  “Oi!” the girl’s voice hisses behind me. “You, Land of Hope and Glory.”

  Very funny, I think darkly.

  The girl’s calling me after that old song because I told the teacher that I preferred to be called Glory rather than Gloria when he added me to the register this morning.

  “Jess!” Mr Carmichael snaps, catching the girl at it. “Save your songs for the playground, please! Ah, in fact it’s lunchtime now. You may all be excused.”

  With whoops and screeches of chairs, my classmates clatter lids open, taking lunches out of their desks, then hurry outside. I’m in no rush to join them, to sit on my own in some corner or be bothered by that Jess girl and the boys from the farm.

  So I play for time, hiding behind the lid of my desk, pretending I’m looking for something. Though all that’s in there is the ham sandwich Miss Saunders made me for lunch. (I doubt I’ll ever be able to th
ink of her as “Auntie Sylvia”.)

  “You worked very nicely this morning, Glory,” Mr Carmichael’s voice booms at me all of a sudden. I take the brown paper bag with my sandwich in it and close the desk lid.

  “Thank you, sir,” I say shyly.

  “I’m sure you’ll settle in well,” he continues, “though I know it can be hard to find your feet when you’re new.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Behind Mr Carmichael’s mostly bald head, I see that the clock hands are pointing to twelve. Rich will be making his way out of school any minute.

  “There are a lot of your sort here,” he says matter-of-factly.

  Does Mr Carmichael mean evacuees, I wonder?

  “But there is one girl I would recommend you steer away from, though,” he carries on, gazing at me over his half-moon spectacles, “and that’s Jess Brennan. She can be very troublesome. And together with Lawrence Wills and Archie Jenkins…”

  My teacher drifts off, tutting to himself, and thinking of some incident or other that’s aggravated him.

  “I suppose the girl can’t help it, coming from her background,” he picks up where he left off. “But let’s just say I think she would be a highly unsuitable friend for a nicely behaved girl like yourself. And I don’t think she’s the type of child of whom a lady of Miss Saunders’ standing would approve.”

  “Yes, Mr Carmichael,” I murmur.

  My cheeks are flushing as I speak. I have no intention of being friends with that Jess girl, but I don’t like the way he said “coming from her background”. He’s one of those people who look down their noses at anyone who comes from London, isn’t he? My old classmates who came back after the Phoney War said there were plenty like that in the countryside. And for all I know, Mr Carmichael may have his eye on me, just waiting for me to put a foot wrong…

  “Anyway,” says Mr Carmichael, slapping his palms on his lap, as if he’s about to change the subject, “are you, erm, settling in well with Miss Saunders?”

  My teacher’s voice has that funny note of doubt and surprise in it that I heard from the shopkeeper on Saturday, when I went to fetch the sugar.

  “Yes, thank you, sir.”

  “Very respectable woman, Miss Saunders. Though she does rather keep herself to herself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I don’t say any more than that, even though I have the feeling that Mr Carmichael would love to find out what goes on behind the closed front door of the village’s most private resident.

  “Miss Saunders was a fine primary school teacher, you know,” he carries on, settling himself on the corner of his table. “A real loss to the profession when she had to give it up. But with her mother being ill and her father long dead, I suppose she had no choice. It’s just a pity that the only time we see her is at church, and she was always so very busy and rushing straight home afterwards to her mother … and now she’s busy with you chaps, of course.”

  It’s interesting hearing a little more about Miss Saunders. But to be honest, I don’t want to be sitting here chit-chatting with my teacher about her or any unsuitable friends I might or might not have. Right now, I happen to be too anxious about Rich to concentrate.

  “May I – may I be excused, Mr Carmichael?” I ask, in the most polite voice I can manage.

  “Yes, yes, my dear,” he says, waving me towards the door. “Enjoy your lunch, get to know some of your classmates, and see you back here in twenty minutes.”

  Twenty minutes. It’s a shorter lunch break than I get at my school back in London, but lots of the kids here live on farms and need to get home as quickly as they can in the afternoon, and help out with work before the light fades.

  Anyway, I can easily do what I need to do in twenty minutes.

  Racing out of the church hall, still clutching my lunch, I head for the gate. Pulling it open and slipping through, I’m aware of more than one voice yelling out a chorus of “Land of Hope and Glory”, but take no notice. Because I know that if I hurry down the lane and get to the green, it’s only a short distance to the primary school, and Rich.

  And there – there he is!

  “Rich!” I call out to him, spotting my brother at the end of the lane, crossing it on his way back to the cottage.

  “Glory, Glory, Glory!” he calls back as I run to him, only vaguely aware of the stinging pain in my foot as panic overwhelms me.

  Something’s happened, hasn’t it? He isn’t smiling. He looks smaller, more like a frightened bird, than when I saw him only three hours ago.

  Maybe it’s the fact that his socks are rumpled around his ankles, revealing the scatter of pink dots where the blisters have newly healed.

  Maybe it’s the oversized baggy navy shorts that are flapping around his puny legs.

  Wait a minute; they’re not his shorts. Rich’s two pairs – lovingly packed by Mum – are grey, and actually fit him.

  “What’s going on?” I ask breathlessly as I reach him.

  Rich bursts into noisy tears, thudding his head into my chest.

  “Hey, hey!” I say, gently placing my hands on either side of his face and kneeling down in front of him. “What’s wrong?”

  Miss Saunders asks the same question as we tumble through the back door of the cottage a few minutes later.

  She’s taking a pie out of the oven. I want to grab it from her and run back to Rich’s school, where I’ll throw it in the face of his Miss Montague!

  “Rich was scared of his teacher,” I tell Miss Saunders, my heart and head pounding, my hand squeezed tight around my little brother’s. “He was too frightened to ask to go to the lavatory, so he…”

  I hold up the brown paper parcel that I found Rich carrying. There’s no lunch in this particular bag – just a soggy pair of grey shorts and underpants.

  The fight suddenly goes out of me.

  Miss Saunders has a strained look on her face. Have we disappointed her again? Is she disgusted with the news that Rich has had yet another “accident”?

  “Dear me,” she exhales, placing the pie dish down on the top of the range. “Well, what are you waiting for, Gloria? You must hurry back to school or you’ll be late for lessons. I’ll deal with Richard.”

  I’ll deal with Richard. The words repeat in my head as I reluctantly let go of my brother’s hand and back out of the door.

  I’ll deal with Richard. The words dance around as I stumble back towards the church hall.

  “I’ll deal with Richard,” I mumble worriedly as I take the few steps up to the heavy wooden door of the hall and push it open. “What does she mean by that?”

  It’s only then that I realize the yard behind me is empty, and the makeshift classroom in the hall is full. While I’ve been fretting, everyone else has filed in and taken their seats.

  Thirty or more pairs of eyes fix on me as I make my way to my desk.

  Three pairs in particular seem to be watching my every move.

  Why are Jess, Archie and Lawrence so interested in me? Can’t they just ignore me? I’d like that a lot better.

  “Sorry I’m late, Mr Carmichael,” I say hurriedly, slipping into my seat.

  Someone – a few someones – snigger around me.

  “Since it’s your first day, I’ll let you off, Miss Gilbert,” says the teacher, sounding less friendly than he had earlier. “But let this be the last time you’re tardy!”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, quickly lifting the lid of my desk to take out my slate and pencil and—

  “EEEEEEEE!!”

  The scream; it’s me.

  The bellows of laughter; that’s everyone else.

  “What on earth!” bellows Mr Carmichael.

  He takes two long strides and is by my side, seeing what I’m seeing.

  The snails, the countless snails oozing inside my desk and covering my slate, seem comple
tely unbothered.

  “Who did this!” booms Mr Carmichael. “Own up now or the consequences will be much worse!”

  I’m not sure the rest of the class can even hear his words, they’re all howling and roaring so much.

  All except one person, who’s whistling the tune of “Land of Hope and Glory”…

  Four days.

  That’s how long we’ve survived school, me and my brother.

  I think I’ve come off best; no one would own up to putting snails in my desk on Monday, so everyone got punished, and now no one speaks to me. That’s all right; I prefer it like that. In fact, I’ve made sure it stays that way by being last to arrive in the morning (I hide behind the holly bush till I see everyone making their way into the church hall) and leaving last at the end of the day (Mr Carmichael appreciates my help tidying up).

  And lunchtimes are taken up with rushing to meet Rich and delivering him back to the cottage.

  Poor Rich.

  Every day is the same. The same fear, the same “accident”.

  Miss Saunders hasn’t said much about it, but since that first day she’s taken to sending Rich to school with a clean pair of underpants and shorts packed in his satchel, and a paper bag to bring home his wet things.

  Every afternoon, I’ve come back from school, seeing my brother’s newly washed clothes drying on a stand in front of the range, ready to be packed in his satchel “just in case”.

  Now it’s Friday, just gone noon, and I’m here at the primary school gates, watching as children bumble out into the arms of waiting mothers (I feel a twinge in my chest).

  “Rich!” I call out, seeing him jostled in the middle of a gang of kids who act like he’s invisible.

  He’s pale. White. Blue eyes red-rimmed.

  It’s happened again.

  “It’s all right, never mind,” I say as Rich reaches me.

  Then I see he’s got nothing in his hands. No soggy bag for me to take.

  “Rich?” I say, brightening. “No accidents today?”

  “Can we go?” he pleads, taking my hand.

  “Of course,” I say, moving away from the mums who are looking him up and down. I haven’t a lot of time anyway; I need to find out what’s going on, get him home and get myself back to school on time to keep on the right side of Mr Carmichael. “So what happened? Didn’t you need to use the loo today?”